


Menagerie

by fuckyatta



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Edgeplay, F/F, Glove Kink, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Invisibility Cloak, Light Bondage, Master/Pet, Mommy Kink, Sloppy Makeouts, Spanking, Stuffing, Teacher-Student Relationship, Trans Female Character, Voyeurism, feederism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-01-06 13:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyatta/pseuds/fuckyatta
Summary: Various one shots of a sexual nature





	1. Cloak (Sombra/D.Va)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey my dudes, I hate posting one shots on their own, evident by the fact that I delete them shortly after, so I thought I'd keep them all on one place! That way I won't feel weird about it, and y'all can see ALL the fanfictions I write, no matter how small.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D.Va gets caught in a sticky situation, Sombra makes the best of it. 
> 
> Invisibility/Voyeurism

Fighting Talon was never an easy task. No matter how many troops went down they somehow managed to keep coming at them, and fighting them in King's Row's narrow streets, made even more claustrophobic with the payload they were trying to stop, didn't make it any easier. 

What made it even more frustrating, however, was D.va trying to force her way through those narrow streets, inside a massive pink meka made even more noticeable by the towns dreary backdrop. Luckily Talon's notorious sniper and assassin were absent from this mission, but that didn't make dealing with their lackeys any easier. The rest of her team was playing too defensively, could barely handle the onslaught and sheer number of them, and it was getting on D.va's nerves. She insisted they dive on them, hell that's what she was good at, but no one seemed to agree with her, and at this rate they were going to lose. 

Eventually, after getting pushed back so far and losing so much ground, she was sick of it and boosted forward, blocking out the cries of protest through her comms. Her defense matrix sponged most of the bullets directed at her the meka's boosters died out. Immediately she was surrounded, and while it was easy to take out the ones in front of her, her meka groaned in protest as bullets pelleted its backside, and soon enough her cockpit was blaring warning alarms and her vision was doused in red as popups piled up on her screen. Even if her team were able to push in and support her her meka would be unsalvageable, and as the meka was on its last leg it gave her one final pop up:

SELF DESTRUCT?

Shifting in her seat, Hana licks in lips in anticipation, tasting the salt of sweat there. Her teams worried tones have long since been washed out by her meka's alarms, but they are even more so when she flips up the compartments of her handle controllers revealing big red buttons on both controllers, holding her breath as she presses down on them. 

The meka changes its stance, legs locking in place as it ejects Hana from the cockpit. The machine gives a deafening whirring whine, Hana watching as the troops scramble for cover, her team bracing behind Reinhardt's shield and she herself running to the nearest alleyway. As the meka curls in on itself, Hana braces herself against a brick wall, covering her ears and shutting her eyes tight. Nerf this, she thinks, as the whining reaches a breaking point and the meka implodes, the ground shaking and the whirring replaced with brief screams of again from those who could not escape. 

Shudders wrack through her body as she opens her eyes, sight adjusting to the ash and rubble littering the empty alley. If she's lucky she will be able to call in another meka and get back to her team before the troops can recover from the explosion. That move was risky, and she would get an ear full about team communication after its all over, but she can't think about that now as she feels hands grip at her upper arms. 

Suddenly she is aware of the fact that she wasn't against a wall, she was pressed against a human body. "Ay conejito, watch we're you're going next time." A voice whispers into her ear. 

She turns her head, but is greeted to the sight of nothing, she could not see who was behind her or their hands firmly holding her arms, but the voice gave them away. "Sombra?" She tries to wiggle out of her grasp but is unsuccessful. "How are you here!"

"I run faster when I'm cloaked, it wasn't hard running for cover."

"That's not what I meant!" Hana gives up struggling, trying to calm the adrenaline coursing through her by relaxing against Sombra. She speaks again, quieter this time. "You told me you weren't going on this mission, I could've hurt you."

Sombra smiles against where Hana's pilot suit ends at her neck, placing a light kiss there. The two met through considerably poor circumstances. Hana had been off in Los Angeles doing a gaming tournament, and Sombra may have hijacked it, for fun, taking control of the enemy players and aimbotting, ultimately getting the home team banned from the tournament. Later Hana was set up at a booth signing autographs, and Sombra had come up to her, leaned over the booth's table and had asked her if she liked her performance in a hushed tone. Before the guards could force her to back away she slipped Hana a piece of paper with a strange email consisting of random numbers and letters, saying it was a way for her to contact. 

Being curious, Hana later messaged her, and every response would come from different emails with the same random patterns, said it was so they couldn't be tracked. In that time Sombra admitted to being a huge fan of D.va, watching her streams for background noise as she worked and admired the girl. Sombra's cool headed personality and confidence intrigued Hana, and they ended up flirting back and forth, then eventually dating, in secret. It was only recently did Sombra really tell her who she was, that she worked for Talon, would have found out eventually on her own if their missions intermingled. Hana seemed to take it well, even said she still wanted to date her, just to make sure not to get in between each others crossfire. 

"Sudden change of plans." She sounds apologetic, hands gripping her arms traveling down to feel up her sides soothingly. Hana cranes her neck back as Sombra continues to plant kisses across her neck, leading up to the shell of her ear. The older womans voice goes husky as she speaks again, "Either way," hands rest at Hana's hips, pulling her closer in so her growing erection now presses into her backside, "I missed you, hermosa."

Breath catches in Hana's throat, the feeling of it strange, considering she could not see the woman behind her. Nonetheless, she laughs, gives an experiment rock against Sombra's invisible form, feeling her try not to surge forward into it. "How are you already hard?" Previously her voice had been shaken and unsure, but her confidence comes back to her as Sombra purrs against her ear. "I haven't even done anything yet."

"Mm, the 'yet' part is what gets me excited." Hands adjust to Hana's front, against her pelvis to have her follow the movement of Sombra rutting into her. 

Again the feeling unusually, especially as Hana expects to see the hands on her when she looks down, not just the wrinkles they form on her uniform. She places her hands on the invisible ones on her, the notion would look odd to anyone who caught a glimpse of the scene. "Uh, aren't you forgetting something?" She taps her fingers against Sombra's so she gets the message.

Sombra chuckles against her ear and revels in the small shivers Hana emits from the action. "My cloaking device still has a few minutes left of juice before it dies out. I thought we could have some fun till then." Suddenly she's flipping them both around, Hana now pressed to the wall as Sombra rubs against her. 

Hana pushes herself back, hands bracing herself to the wall, arches into Sombra's touches, an invisible hand tracing down her spine, the retractable fingernails of her gloves tickling her as it travels downwards. Her breathing has become unsteady at this point, the cold wall giving only a moments repose when she rests her forehead against it. "What if someone sees us? We're kinda out in the open here."

"Correction; you're kinda out in the open. If I really needed to, my translocator's already deployed." Sombra leans forward, pressing her weight onto Hana, giving her a rather harsh buck that causes the girl under her to gasp. She's fully hard now, erection pushing against her tights, and the texture feels lovely as she thrusts her clothed dick to Hana's covered ass, tight pilot suit making it easy to squeeze her rear and pull apart her cheeks, giving her more room to press into her. "But the thought makes you wet, doesn't it conejito? Someone walking in on you like this..." She accentuates her statement with another hard thrust, earning a strangled whimper and an earnest thrust back in return. "What a naughty girl you are." 

A flush warms Hana's cheeks and creep across to her ears and collarbones. Ever since they began flirting, Sombra had always been able to speak dirty to her easily, Hana usually became too embarrassed to retort back, as she did in this moment. All she could do was respond with a throaty moan, the invisible woman above her pressed so tightly to her, trapping her there for Sombra to do with as she pleases. 

The hand at Hana's spine ghosts across her body, to her front and down between her legs, fingers running up the length of her vulva, pressing hard enough against her outfit to open her labia. It feels awkward almost, having her uniforms material pushed against her, but still pleasurable. Sombra hums in appreciation as she explores her clothed sex, slowing her thrusts to languid rolls of her hips. 

"You're so wet for me conejito, I can feel it even through your uniform, I wish I could have a taste..." She presses a kiss to Hana's nape, biting there and then soothing with her hot tongue, repeating the action till a mark is left in its wake. Hana whines when the hand at her core slithers back up her sides, now both hands grabbing at her ass. "But more than that," Sombra's voice is low and smokey, makes Hana shake, "I want to fuck this cute little ass of yours." She emphasizes it by sliding her pronounced erection across her spread cheeks, and Hana lifts up on her toes to follow the action. "Would you like that conejito? For me to tear apart your uniform and fuck you out here on the street? For me to cum inside in your ass?" 

Hana sobs, would have cum that very moment if Sombra would give her more stimulation than this. "Yes, yes please," She begs, having to swallow to stop herself from drooling, and her breath afterward coming out haggerdly.

"Please what? Be specific with me conejito, I want to hear what you want." 

Sombra's soft rutting has slowed even further, and Hana bites tries to bite down the desperation in her voice as she begs. "Please, please fuck me, Sombra, I want you inside of me!" 

The woman above her gives a pleased noise, satisfied with her. "Mm, that's my girl." She purrs.

Suddenly, though, the weight pressing against her is gone, and Hana turns her head, presumeably looking up at Sombra. She is about to speak when she feels an invisible hand against her mouth.

"Your team is looking for you. Look presentable."

Immediately Hana stands up, running her hands across her pilot suit, grimacing as she undoes what essentially was a wedgie between her legs from Sombra's ministrations. She catches the hushed chuckle to her side as she does so, but before she can even so much as give her a glare, one of her teammates, Mercy, followed soon after by Genji, run into the alley.

"Hana! Are you alright, after you self destructed you disappeared. Luckily we were able to fend off the remaining Talon operatives." Mercy calls out to her, now in front of her, hands gingerly clasping her face and inspecting her for injuries.

Hana has to catch her breath, and hopes her cheeks aren't too red. "I'm fine! Just stayed put instead of trying to thrust myself into action again, would have been a risk." She's almost certain she hears Sombra laugh as she says the word thrust, but neither Mercy or Genji notice.

Genji speaks up. "What you did was a risk, D.va. Please be more careful." He tilts his head to try and emulate the action that he's smiling, something he picked up from Zenyatta. 

Hana smiles apologetically in return. "I'm sorry guys, It wont happen again." Unless it results in her girlfriend attempting to fuck her again? Then it will happen again, she would let it happen a million times over. 

"Alright, good. Let's get back to the rest of the team, they're worried sick about you." Mercy nods her head to the side, and her and Genji start walking. 

Before Hana follows, she is stopped by a hand tugging on hers. She turns, looks out into the empty alley, gives a questioning look. The invisibly hand soon leaves hers, in her hand now rests a scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it. "Meet me there, tonight." The air whispers around her. "I don't want our fun to end just yet." 

She smiles at that and nods, and for a brief moment feels hands that arent there on her face, cradling it like Mercy had done earlier, and something soft pressing to her lips. In that same moment it the feeling was there, it's gone completely, leaving a warm hum to wash over her.


	2. Bon Appetit (Sombra/Widowmaker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sombra loves to spoil her girlfriend, maybe a bit too much.
> 
> Feederism/Stuffing/Weight gain/Food kink

Sombra was not one to go back on her word. When she told Widowmaker that she was planning to help her escape Talon's grasp, she meant it. For a long while the assassin was cold and cruel to the hacker, the two had simply been coworkers. That was quick to change, when the two began to spend more time together, whether it be simply on missions or quiet moments alone in each others barracks. Both knew of the consequences that would arise from the situation, Talon had begun to grow suspicious of their budding relationship, and they knew that while Sombra was not contractually bound to the organization, Widowmaker was an asset, but replicable, and could be disposed of. 

When close calls started becoming a danger to the assassin's well being, Sombra risked everything to get her to safety. She loved her, Widowmaker was hesitant to express her feelings in return, but she knew she felt the same. It was the little things, the way she endured her shitty jokes and remembered small details about the hacker, things the assassion would not do for others. She cherished those rare moments of affection, did not want to lose it, and worked to make those moments between them more of a common occurrence. 

That is why, in those following months of running from place to place, staying under the radar, she refused to let Widowmaker do any of the strenuous work that came with trying to remain hidden. It was a safety procedure, she had told her, much easier for Sombra herself to do the dirty work. Not only that, but it made going out in public not such a difficult task. Widowmaker, while useful in so many situations, was, well, easy to spot in a crowd.

It left her restless, the hacker had come back many a time to Widowmaker pacing the small apartments they hopped to and fro from. Some days she could get the assassin to still, but the energy buzzing through her remained evident, in the way her knee bounces anxiously, or how golden eyes scour the room for the nth time that hour. Sombra did her best to include her, such as when a friend needed to be dealt with, or help with packing up their things when they needed to make a quick departure.

It is only until they reach their final destination, her home base Castillo, does the constant back and forth cease. Talon had not been informed about Sombra's base of operations, and now hoped to keep it that way. Even so, Widowmaker was forced to stay put, just to be safe, at least for a while. Now, though, with a comfortable living situation, Sombra can properly spoil her spider. Before had never felt like the time, both so busy with their escape that it felt inapporiate to indulge in such things. 

On days she'd have to leave, she would come back with books, cds, little knick knacks, things Widowmaker could call hers. Recently she had learned of Widowmaker's desire to create, and later came back with an easel and paints and canvases. That barely there look of surprise and wonderment she received in return had made her fall in love with the woman all over again.

Her favorite of all, however, was cooking for her. She picked it up from her grandma, a habit to make big meals to serve her parents and siblings, a family long since gone but the custom still applied. It had made sense for herself, being so active, but still she insisted that Widowmaker eat all that was on her plate The assassin never complained, Sombra was a good cook, and it made the hacker happy how much she enjoyed her food, so she never thought much on it. 

With a drastically slowed heart and metabolism, and exempt from her previously laborious day job, though, the change happened practically overnight. Sharp edges softened, strong, defined muscles were replaced instead with a plush weight. It was not an extreme change, but Sombra noticed right away, the changes, though for a while Widowmaker seemed oblivious. Never before had she been self conscious of her appearance, literally shaped by Talon to be a femme fatale, sleek, sexy, dangerous, and perhaps that's why Sombra was initially shocked Widowmaker brought it up one day. She had been sitting on their shared bed, previously reading a book now abandoned by her side, and Sombra had been cooking the two of them dinner for the evening.

"When you mentioned wanting to grow old and fat together, I had thought you meant it figuratively." Sombra turned to her, eyes glancing over towards the woman's midsection. Before, the assassin had been so bone thin that when she would sit, there was no fat there to be pronounced. Now, especially with her sat cross legged and leaning in slightly forward, the beginnings of a soft belly protruded out right, folds attempting to form at her sides. It was undeniably cute.

"Me? Figurative?" The hacker places a hand to her chest, feigning offense. "I have never once in my life said anything not in a literal sense." 

Widowmaker responds with a click of her tongue to her teeth, but her amused smile does not go unnoticed. That amused smile turns coy that same moment. "If I had to guess, I'd say you this was your plan all along."

Removing her gloves now, Sombra turns off the burner and setting aside the cast iron pan of chicken and peppers. She's balancing a plate of empanadas and the hot pan placed now on a wooden board with either hands, a server of tortillas placed snugly between her arm, brings it all to the edge of the bed, situates herself in front of the assassin. Greedy hands are on her in an instant, unable to resist, fingers pressing into the supple flesh of her under belly, urging her to lay down, which she does. "Mm, what makes you say that, araña?"

In truth, perhaps it was a...fantasy of Sombra's. What could she say? She was a sucker for big girls, more to love. Though it was more than that. The idea of fattening up her girlfriend, with her own cooking no less, was arousing. Getting her to a point where she would have to assist her in menial tasks, something as mundane as helping her move from one place to another, spoon feed her...she doubts she could convince her to get to that point, but she wished for it to come true, at least a little bit. She's groping her abdomen now, pushing and pulling, releasing it and watching the fat jiggle back into place. The assassin's shirt rides up just an inch, reveals a hint of a blue tummy, and Sombra hopes that one day, if she can truly go forth with her little dream, she could delve her hands between folds of fat, get lost in them. 

Widowmaker does not give a response, has gone quiet since Sombra's hands got to her. A curious glance and the assassin is idly rolling the bed sheets between her fingers, face turned to her side, eyes looking anywhere but Sombra. She looks shy, insecure, an emotion the hacker has never seen on the woman. It's incredibly endearing. Lips meet that sliver of skin peeking from her shirt, loving, reassuring kisses are planted there. "Don't be embarrassed, I love you araña, all of you." She accentuates her words with a little squeeze to Widowmaker's middle, feels the woman squirm under her grasp. "Besides, you haven't eaten all day today, and I made you this dinner just for you. Aren't you feelin' hungry?" Sombra's looking up at her expectantly, body swaying reminiscent of a puppy wanting to play.

Still the woman below her remains silent, Sombra worries she has made her uncomfortable. Before she can back pedal, Widowmaker shoots a quick glance to her, then back to around the room. Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of blue, and she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, and then shes nodding. Sombra lights up, tries to contain herself as she nudges apart Widomaker's legs to situate herself between them, scooting them both back until the assassin is comfortably sitting up, leaning against the bed's pillows.

Bringing the plates of food with them, she sets the plate of empanadas on her lap. There must've been 20 or so, all piled up on the plate, and she takes one of the pastry's and holds it up to Widowmakers mouth. "Open up, hermosa." She waves it between her fingers. Hesitant still, it takes a moment for the woman in front of her to finally relent, opening her mouth a bit, enough for Sombra to press the pastry to her lips and for her to take a bite. "Atta girl..." Sombra's trying not to sound too excited, watching intently as the assassin chewed, already pressing the rest of the food to her mouth before she's even swallowed. 

Reluctantly she takes the rest of the pastry into her mouth, lips briefly meeting the tips of Sombra's fingers. The eyes on her warms her cold blood, she does not break their gaze when she swallows, and another empanada is to her mouth. The initial hesitation melts away as one by one the pastries are cleared from the plate. Halfway through the pile, Sombra's eagerness shows through, pushing the whole of the fried puffs into her mouth, attempting to push them past her lips before she can even properly chew them. Widowmaker has to grip her wrist to stop her, Sombra giving her a sheepish look as she finishes what's left in her mouth. Her breathing comes out in short little huffs, Sombra's onslaught not giving her much break in between the food fed to her. 

She is already feeling full, and her belly shows it, bulging out just a slight amount. The hopeful look Sombra is giving her encourages her to keep going, wrist still in her grip she guides it forward. Keeping Sombra's hand in place, and once finishing the pastry in her mouth, she leans in, licks up Sombra's palm to her fingers, bringing one into her mouth and sucking, cleaning her hand from any crumbs. A shiver resonates throughout Sombra's body, she moves her hand away, then presses a thumb to Widowmaker's lips, pushes through to press it to her tongue, hot and wet. A moment passes between them, enough for the assassin to properly catch her breath as Sombra idly pets at her tongue, fingers cradling her chin. Then she's pulling her in, replacing the thumb in the other's mouth with her own mouth, and they share a quick kiss before Sombra resumes hand feeding her. 

By now the plate is empty, and Widowmaker is understandably stuffed, and when the plate is moved from Sombra's lap the hacker is against her, body pressing up to her taut stomach, hands stroking up her thighs and squeezing. Breathing has become a tad difficult, an occasional cramp running through her, though the soothing kisses to her pulse point ease the pressure to a degree. "Control your excitement, mon chou." 

In response Sombra presses a growled laugh against her neck, fingers digging into the soft fat of her thighs. She gives an experimental thrust, rutting her prominent erection against her, and a broken whine escapes the assassin as she returns it in earnest. "I'm the one that'll be calling you creampuff once I'm done with you." She gets a playful kick to her back from the heel of Widowmaker's foot and she chuckles before moving back. She's opening the server of tortillas next, places one down on the previously empty plate, and she notices the uncertain look Widowmaker is giving her. 

"I'm not sure..." She begins, but is cut off by Sombra's hand to her tight belly, groans when she paws at her.

"You've got room left. Besides, don't want all this food to go to waste do you?" Already she is piling on meat and peppers to the tortilla on the plate, rolling it up tightly. While guiding it to Widowmaker's mouth she places her free hand under the fajita to capture any drippings coming off of it. Widowmaker doesn't complain further, taking a bite of it, Sombra making quick work to wipe off the corners of her mouth with her thumb while she chews.

When Sombra isn't cleaning her up, a tentative hand is at her belly, rubbing soothing circles along it. She's lifted her shirt over it, the round of her belly now fully exposed as she petted her. After a few tortillas are gone, she digs her fingers to the underside of her belly, lifts up the hefty weight and drops it, watching it settle to its original place. Widowmaker groans, has to take a long moment to breathe long slow breaths, swollen stomach pushing against her. Sombra gives her a minute, emptying her hands so she can use both to properly knead at her belly, bending her back to kiss at it. 

The assassins shirt bunches up between the top of her belly and the underside of her breasts, and Sombra takes the hem of it and lifts it up, assisting her in removing it completely. Despite the weight she's gained, her breasts remain small and cute, they fit perfectly in Sombra's hands. After a while, Widowmaker gives her the okay to continue feeding her, and she does. The final push is slow, Sombra giving her time to chew and swallow, waiting each time for a sign that she's okay to keep going. 

And when the tortilla server is empty and all that remains on the cast iron pan is scraps, Widowmaker cannot contain the small whines and mewls escaping her as her stomach groans in protest. Sombra is cooing praises to her as she presses an ear to her noisy stomach, reveling in the upset noises it makes. Her hands roam, petting up her stomach, squeezing her chest, groping her thighs, anywhere her hands could get. 

Sombra's cock strains against her tights visibly, pressing to the underside of Widowmaker's belly. "You are so pretty like this, araña." 

"Merci." Widowmaker's breath comes out in short little huffs. Sombra's hands go to her rear, she adjusts how she's sitting, now on spread knees. In a swift movement the hacker cups her, lifts her up by the hips and pulls her forward so she's now resting on the hacker's knees.

She gives Widowmaker time to adjust before giving an experimental thrust. The assassin moans, hands gripping the sheets as the sudden motion jostles her upset stomach. Her eyebrows furrow, and she takes a moment to just breathe. Sombra is genter this time, a languid roll of her hips, hands still at Widowmaker's rear she guides her forward to meet the motion. The whines and squeaks that emit from her are so unlike the normal stoic demeanor, spurs Sombra to continue, but a hand previously tangled in the bed sheets presses to her chest, urges her to slow down to a stop.

She does, moves Widowmaker off her lap to lay down on the bed itself, hands rubbing at her swollen abdomen. "Too much?" She asks, a twinge of guilt hinting in her voice.

"Perhaps, oui." Widowmaker tries to sound a bit amused, does not want Sombra to feel bad. The pressure applied to her stomach eases the cramping somewhat, placing her hand over Sombra's to lead her massage. "We can try again next time, slower, I think."

The prospect of a second time is all that it takes to get her hopes back up. She spends the rest of the evening rubbing away Widowmaker's soreness and thinking aloud what she should make for dessert.


	3. Hands Clean (Widowmaker/Tracer)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tracer and Widowmaker do their same old song and dance
> 
> alternative title: It's Not Gay If You're Wearing Gloves
> 
> glove kink/sloppy makeouts/implied cheating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send requests to https://dunkyatta.tumblr.com/ and please be as specific as possible with what you want, and be on alert that I might ask follow up questions on what you're okay and not okay with, thanks!

It always ended up like this. Morocco, Talon activity, news of a group of environmentalists traveling the world being hunted down by operatives Widowmaker and Reaper. Overwatch deployed their own operatives to guard over them. They were posted at the hotel they resided in, when later than afternoon a clap of thunder shook the otherwise silent sky, but no signs indicated that it would rain that day. 

Blood rushes through Tracer, ignoring distressed teammates calling out to her to wait on orders as she's blinking out the hotel room, down the flight of stairs and outside. She turns off her communicator, running up the narrow streets scouring the area for the source of the noise. 

Then, she spots her, red glowing gaze a stark contrast to the bright walls around them. It stares down at her from high up the rooftops, and then it's gone, the woman fleeing. Tracer makes quick work of barging into one of the nearby buildings, spewing apologies to people she's shoving past and dashing up the stairs. The residence she's in doesn't have access to the roof, so she climbs out the top story window and hops up to the roof. 

Sprinting across rooftops and blinking over gaps, Tracer pursues the woman. She's catching up fast, and in an attempt to lose her the latex clad woman grapples to the street below. Tracer drops down, recovers from the fall and goes back to chasing her. They run through tight streets, walls painted a light blue around them. Once they've passed a corner Tracer dives for her, tackling them both to the ground.

Tracer ends up on top, hands holding onto the woman's wrists and pinning them down, hips pressed down into hers to keep her still. The woman attempts to buck her off to no avail. The two are breathing heavy, and eventually the silence is broken by the woman below her. 

"It seems you've caught me, chérie." Says the Widowmaker, accent thick and alluring, visor pulling apart to reveal smoldering golden eyes looking up at her. 

Tracer returns the gaze with the same intensity, gloved hands grazing down the assassins arms, fingers tracing the webbed tattoo wrapped around her forearm. "Appears so, luv." 

Below her the assassin twists in her grasp, back arched and chest pushed out. "What are you going to do with me, cadet?" She says, feigning innocence, hinting at coy.

Humming thoughtfully, hands travel down to the assassins exposed collarbone, thumb running over it's ridge, the texture of her gloves causing the woman below her to shiver. "I've got a few ideas..." Fingers delve underneath latex, filling her palms with the assassin's soft breasts and squeezing.

The Widowmaker laughs, silky smooth voice bouncing off the walls in the empty street. "You have no shame."

Tracer scoffs, appears to look offended. " _I_ have no shame? Says the dame shaking her arse at anyone willing to stick their knob in 'er." She pushes the latex away, fully exposing the assassins breasts, takes her nipples between her fingers and pinches, twists, feels the way her hips stutter at the action. "Bloody whore."

A long leg hooks around Tracer's middle, heeled boot tracing up her back. The assassin looks pleased with herself, left hand, hand without the exposed trigger finger, reaches up and runs through untamed brown hair, tangles in it and pulls, urging her closer. "You like it."

"Never said I didn't." 

Their kiss is nothing short of aggressive. Teeth clicking harshly, a tongue forcing it's way inside Widowmaker's mouth, petting at her own tongue, the back of her teeth and the roof of her mouth, exploratory yet forceful. She bites down on the intruder, swallows Tracer's groan as she sucks on the hot muscle. 

Tracer gropes roughly at her breasts, nails digging into pliable flesh. Her gloves dull the sensation, acting as a barrier to the quivering body before her. Never once during their encounters did either dare to take off their gloves. The thick leather prevented Tracer from ever experiencing the icy cold Widowmaker's skin truly was, the only indication of it was the chill of her lips, and the contrast between that and her warm mouth and heated breath. It was almost a silent agreement, for neither to touch each other, flesh to flesh. 

She supposed lips didn't count. Hoped so, anyways.

There's a sharp tug on her hair, and she pulls back. Faintly, in the distance the two hear footsteps, orders being shouted out and gunfire in the streets around them. Tracer attempts to move, but the grip on her hair prevents her as does the nipping at her lips. She bites back, enough to draw blood and a moan from the assassin. Licking the trial of crimson dripping down Widowmaker's chin, she's back to claiming her mouth. There's small moments where the two back away to breathe but are instantly back to ravaging one another.

The hand in in her hair strays down to her cheek, cold leather a distant feeling as is lowers down her neck. Fingers there tease at her pulse, tempting the possibility of tightening around her and choking, but in that same instant they are gone, pulling at the straps of her chronal accelerator. Her free hand grabs at Tracer's, and she's backing away from the kiss and bringing her hand to her mouth, licking at the rough texture of her gloves. Tracer pushes two fingers into her mouth, Widowmaker wraps her lips around them and sucks.

"You're right randy today, aren't you? Missed me, luv?" The comment comes out strangely affectionate, hopes that the assassin thinks nothing of it as she pushes her digits farther into her mouth. She gets a moan in response. She can't feel the saliva on her fingers but she can feel the heat seep through the leather as she's stuffing her thumb into her mouth, takes a hold of her tongue and pets at it. Pulling at it, She leans forward and takes the muscle into her mouth, drool accumulated there drips past their lips and runs down her chins, dried blood from Widowmaker's lip mixing in with it. 

As they kiss, wet fingers trial down Widowmaker's chest, stop to give her breast a firm squeeze, before going lower, past the latex on her middle. They way her hand bulges out of her uniform is obscene, furthermore when they stroke her sex, slow and teasing. Widowmaker spreads her legs invitingly, whining into her mouth as two digits press into her entrance, push through without resistance. They pump in her, motion short and harsh due to being constricted in her uniform. Widowmaker rolls her hips against her, breaks apart from their kiss to lean back, head tossed to the side, hand tugging at Tracer's straps to usher her closer. 

Tracer's back bows, presses against her, kisses at the side of her neck, all lips and tongue to avoid leaving marks. Widowmaker's moans are hushed, never one for making much noise. The fingers thrusting in her are rough, leather pressing deep within her, and she bucks when they curl inward, pet at her sensitive front wall. A textured thumb rubs figure eights on her clit, unrelenting. And though the touch of the gloves are heavenly, her body craves skin to skin, burns for it. But on the same hand, the rejection of it fuels the white hot in her core. Without that contact she can imagine that it isn't Tracer's hands on her, and she assumes that Tracer feels the same, gives them an excuse to deny all this. 

Sex, but with no strings attached. Sombra once called it _fuckbuddies_ , but Widowmaker found the word much too crass, and her and Tracer certainly weren't buddies, or friends, or acquaintances, they were nothing.

Soon enough she's convulsing against the leather clad fingers, but she is not given the chance to ride it out, fingers leaving her, adjusting her uniform for her in a way one could see as almost romantic if they had walked in on them.

It leaves her feeling unsatisfied as Tracer stands, helps her up. "Sorry, Luv, but my teams outta be lookin' for me by now, they'll be in a right tizzy if they found out what we've been up to." Just as she's about to blink off, Widowmaker takes a hold of the hand previously inside her, brings it to her lips and licks the leather clean, eyes locked onto Tracer.

Tracer watches her intensely, a smirk on her face, and once Widowmaker is finished, she gently brushes a thumb to Widowmaker's cheek, before dashing off to find her team. Widowmaker stands there a moment before doing the same.

And when the mission is over, and Tracer returns back to her appartment in Kings Row, the first thing she does is take off her gloves before cradling Emily's face in her hands and kissing her.


	4. Etiquette (Widowmaker/D.Va)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hana signs up for a course on etiquette as a joke, though perhaps she'll get more out of it than she previously believed. 
> 
> Teacher/Student AU/Spanking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again my dudes, as always I love comments and critiques. Requests are always open, and I take them here and at https://dunkyatta.tumblr.com/ . Please be as precise as possible with you're requests, and expect follow up questions from me. Thanks!

To be fair, Hana thought it was a joke. She didn't think signing up for an etiquette class literally meant she would be taught the rules of etiquette. How is this a college course? Is there degree for this kind of topic? When she received the email detailing class dates and what to expect. She had to know what went on in a class like that. Just go one day, then drop out of the class, easy enough.

Then she saw the professor. 

In that moment, she truly understood the definition of high class. Oh so pale skin that contrasted vividly against her black hair, pulled into a tight, high pony tail. Sharp, cat like eyes that caught her attention and didn't let it go. Dark red lipstick, the color matching her nails, which Hana embarrassingly noted were perfectly filed and clipped short. And good god, her _legs_ , they went on forever, made impossibly longer with the high heels she wore, pencil skirt hugging powerful thighs. When she wasn't stuck trying to avoid eye contact she was eyeing the way the muscles in her legs flexed when she walked, how her hips swayed.

Hana squirmed in her seat. _Fuck_ , she was gay. All the joking she did on social media about _wanting a goth gf_ was coming back to bite her in the ass, _hard_.

Oh god, then the vampire goddess opened her fucking mouth, and her accent was rich, alluring, honey thick and made Hana's distressed state that much worse. "You will refer to me as Madame Lacroix." As she spoke she began writing down rules on the white board behind her, handwriting neat and tidy like the rest of her:

_1) Sit up straight._

_2) Do not speak unless given permission._

_3) Do not cheat._

_Breaking these rules will result in punishment._

Before Hana could imagine how you could possibly cheat in an etiquette class, Madame Lacroix spoke. "I see someone is already breaking my rules." Hushed laughter resonates throughout the lecture room, and Hana realizes the entire class is staring at her. She's been hunched over the desk, noticeably fidgeting in her seat.

In that same moment the laughter dies down, replaced with the sound of heels clicking up the steps to her desk, and suddenly Madame Lacroix is looming over her. Hana swallows, cheeks flushing a pretty pink, the professor's lips quirking up into a dangerous smirk. It lights a fire in the pit of Hana's stomach, and she quickly adjusts herself, sitting properly. A cold hand forces a shiver down her spine as it presses against her back, fixing her posture till it's to her liking.

Her voice is quiet, only a few students around her catching what the woman says to her. "Something tells me you're going to make my job a lot more difficult. I accept the challenge." Then the hand on her back left, leaving an icy chill in its wake, and Madame Lacroix was walking back to her desk as if what she said _wasn't_ sexually charged.

The professor began talking about their first lesson, but Hana was too busy burying her burning face in her hands while attempting to maintain proper posture. Whenever she dared to peek past her fingers, she saw golden eyes watching her intently, then went right back to hiding behind her hands. Everything the professor spoke melted together and drowned Hana's ears, not taking in any information but simply existing in a wave of a deep, sweet accent. 

It certainly helped pass the time. 

Before she knew it her peers were standing from their desks and walking out of the class. She followed suit, locking eyes with the floor as she attempted to blend in with the rest of the students. All that was on her mind was dropping out of that class, but when she returned to her dorm, an email had been sent by Madame Lacroix, reminding the class of dates, and that their first test will be one week from now, and she forgot all about her original plans. 

But then she remembered the next time she stepped into the class. Madame Lacroix was late, leaving the class to mingle with one another for a few minutes. It only took a quick listen to learn that the students around her were all egocentric artists, and that not really being her type, Hana instead mindlessly scrolls through social media on her tablet. When she hears the entrance open, she simply lowers the tablet underneath the desk so it goes unseen, keeping her eyes glued to the screen. 

Her first mistake of the day was taking just a moments glance up at the professor. Still primly dressed, but her hair was messily tied back, strands of inky black falling down her face, a thin layer of sweat coated her skin. Hana felt her eyes were going to bug out of her damn skull as the out of breath woman ran her hands through her hair, adjusting her ponytail. 

"My apologies, my last class ran late." She addresses to the class, and Hana faintly recalls her friend Lena raving about her wicked hot French track and field coach and she feels like an idiot not putting the dots together until just now. Now all she can think about is how great _Coach_ Lacroix's ass must look when shes running, cheeks burning crimson as she returns her gaze at the tablet in her lap.

And just like that her professor's lecture begins, words fading from her as her attention is elsewhere. Madame Lacroix walks up and down the isles, casually watching over her students as she speaks. The rich tone of her voice dissipates, a pregnant pause falls over the room, and when Hana looks up from the screen, Madame Lacroix is standing in front of her, an eyebrow raised. Hana must look like a deer caught in headlights as her professor leans over and takes her tablet. 

"You may retrieve this after class." Is all she says as she walks down the isle, setting the device atop her desk. Apparently her professor was finished with her lecture, evident by the fact that she rolled down the projector and started playing a film, some French movie about the behaviors of a proper gentleman, but that was hardly what Hana was focusing on. Instead she zoned in on Madame Lacroix sitting at her desk, looking through her _tablet_.

It took maybe a seconds worth of guessing to figure out her password ( _maybe_ setting the code to 0000 wasn't Hana's smartest move, she'll confess) before she unlocked it, and was casually perusing Hana's social media like it was hers. Hana wouldn't have been bothered if some of her most recent posts wasnt her venting about her smoking hot new teacher and how she dreaded having to go back to that class, more so when it becomes obvious that Madame Lacroix stumbles across said posts, if her looking up at Hana and smiling something evil is anything to go by. That's the last time she's horny on main.

The look her professor gives her is nothing short of malicious, eyelids lowered and a smirk on her lips. Heat ruptures throughout her whole body, tremors running up her spine at the implications of the woman's raunchy stare, and Hana looks anywhere but those alluring eyes. 

It feels like a century before the movie ends, and like the day before Hana attempts to blend in with the rest of the students corralling towards the exit. For a moment she thinks she's free, but then a voice behind her speaks up. 

"Miss Song, I do believe you're forgetting something." Hana mentally curses as she stops in her tracks, waiting for the crowd to disperse before hesitantly making her way towards Madame Lacroix's desk. The professor is sitting at her desk, legs crossed and tablet held out towards her, but as Hana moves to grab it, it's snatched away from her grasp. "Tell me something," There's a glint of mischievous curiosity is the professor's eyes, "Why are you taking my class."

Hana shifts in her spot. "Didn't think I was actually signing up for a class." The answers truthful, but still it has a bite of aggression, wanting to end the conversation and leave as soon as possible.

Madame Lacroix hums in consideration, waving the tablet in her hand teasingly. "If that is the case, why have you not dropped out?" 

Hot embarrassment flares on Hana's cheeks. "That's none of your business!" She reaches over to grab her tablet, does so successfully, but Madame Lacroix's grip on it does not lessen.

"I suppose not." She relents, releasing the device, Hana stumbling back from the suddenness. "But miss Song, if you continue to misbehave, I will have no choice but to punish you, those are my rules." Her voice is low, confident and full of promise. They fill Hana's mind with possibilities as she rushes to exit the room, not wanting to be there any longer.

The next few times she is in Madame Lacroix's class, it plays out rather similarly. Like clockwork, her professor wanders through the isles as she lectures, and without fail, whenever she reaches Hana's desk, there is something to reprimand. Posture, listening to music, texting, using her tablet, one day she even fell asleep in the middle of class, and was only woken up after class with a strong grip in her hair forcing her to stand, snapping her awake and being face to face with upturned well kept eyebrows and glowering golden eyes staring right through her. She had fumbled running down the isle steps and out of the class, flustered arousal in the pit of her stomach as she rushed back to her dorm. 

Soon enough, a week passes, and as Hana walks in the room she spots a difference. In the front of the class what replaces Madame Lacroix's desk is now instead a small round dining table. Set up there is a dinner plate and assorted silverware. Across the table sits her professor, sitting prim and proper, her hair isn't tied back, instead cascading down her back in waves and encasing her angular face. Hana is so awestruck that she almost doesn't catch the professors instructions. 

Today was test day, and Madame Lacroix instructs the class to sit outside of the room and wait to be called inside. Once inside they will follow her instructions, and then once done with the test they were free to leave. All the students anxiously waited outside for their turn. Most kids who went in were much more shaken leaving, hell one kid came out _crying_ , and taking a quick peak inside the classroom one could see the professor, cold and calculated, sitting at the table, plate smashes and silverware scattered around the floor. It took a few moments for her to set back up and call in the next student. 

One by one, the crowd of students thinned out until it was just Hana, bouncing on her heels in anticipation to be called. The final student left the classroom, and a moment later Hana was being called inside. Swallowing her nerves down, Hana enters the class, but it is not what she expects. The tableware previously on the table was no longer there. She stood by the door nervously, unsure of what was going on.

"I don't bite, miss Song. Please, sit." Madame Lacroix's voice calls out to her, motioning for her to sit. Cautiously, she does, and for a long moment there is silence, before her professor speaks again. "You aren't paying attention in my class."

"Yes I am!" Hana says defensively.

"Then tell me, what was last weeks lesson." That shuts her up. Instead of lying, Hana stares down at the table, leg bouncing anxiously. Her professor laughs, reaches over the table to grip Hana's chin between her fingers and forcing her to look up. "Table manners. You've been distracted, and I do not appreciate such rude behavior in my classroom."

"I-" 

"I have not given you permission to speak." Her professor's voice is stern and authoritative, and Hana can't help it; her legs clench together at the silky thick tone and the icy glare she receives. "I feel like I've been clear with you. Misbehaving results in punishment, and you've been a rather naughty girl, haven't you?" Holy _fuck_ , was this actually happening? Hana could already feel a desire burning between her legs as Madame Lacroix removes her grip, standing up from the table. "Someone so childish deserves a punishment equal to that of a child's, don't you agree? Stand up." 

She does, and her professor stalks towards her, eyes predatory as she observes her prey. Madame Lacroix kicks her chair aside, and, now behind her, places a hand between her shoulder blades, urging her to bend over. Hana lets out a shaky breath as she complies, legs beginning to quiver. Her breath turns into a gasp as a hand grabs a handful of her rear, squeezes the flesh in its palm. Her own hands clench as her professor presses against her, voice husky as she speaks. 

"For someone taking a course in etiquette, I would think you would know it is rude to stare, and you do quite a lot of that in my class, miss Song. Tell me, what is it that your staring at while in my class?" When she doesn't answer, the hand at her back combs through her hair, fingers tangling in brown locks before tugging, hard, pulling a strangled whine from her. "You are allowed to speak. Answer me." 

"You," Hana chokes out. "I'm staring at you." 

Madame Lacroix laughs, the sound itself causing Hana to arch her back, pushing back against the hand on her ass. "Didn't your parents teach you manners?" Her professor leans over, pressing against her back and whispering into her ear. "What a dirty little thing you are. Don't you know it is inappropriate to have desires for ones professor? Or do you get off on that sort of thing?"

Before Hana can provide an answer, her professor goes back to standing straight, and the hand on her ass is gone, before it winds back, hitting her backside with a harsh slap. Hana groans, knees buckling, fingers curling against the tables hard wood for purchase. Her mind goes fuzzy, barely recognizes the sensation of a hand yanking down her pants and underwear until she feels a cold hand against her bare bottom, forcing a shiver out of her. 

"I believe a spanking is a proper punishment. And for every one, you will call out the number, and thank me after it, understood?" Hana nods, but it is not enough, judging by the pull of her hair.

"Yes!" She gasps out. And before she can ready herself, that cold hand comes back, hard and painful, and Hana cries out one! as fingers dig into the underside of her rear for just a moment, before repeating the slap on the other cheek. Tears build up in the corners of her eyes as the onslaught continues, her voice weak as she calls out each number, and each time the hand on her soothes the area being assaulted. 

Once she's finally called out ten, her legs tremble, struggling to keep herself up. The stimulation humilatingly has made her horribly aroused, her cunt clenching, wetness dripping down her thighs. Madame Lacroix acknowledges this, a single finger running up the length of her wet lower lips, a whine leaving Hana's lips. "Such a bad girl, enjoying her punishment." She says, finger plunging deeper, teasing her quivering entrance. Hana's breath comes out in short puffs, pressing her forehead to the chill wood of the table. "I believe you're forgetting something." 

It takes a moment for Hana's foggy mind to register what she's reffering to her, but eventually it clicks. "Thank you." Her voice comes out shaky, strained. 

Her professor hums, pleased, continues to stroke at her aching entrance. "And does my bad girl want me to fuck her?" 

Hana moans desperately, nodding before realizing her lack of words. "God, yes."

"Yes, what?" The woman asks coyly, pressing her digit against her, and she bucks back, needing more. 

"Yes, I want you to fuck me!" Her words are encompassed by another heady moan as the finger pushes further, down to the last knuckle and pressing into her sensitive front wall. 

The pace is slow, languid, drives Hana insane as her professor takes her time exploring her hot insides, pressing and prodding and opening her up. Barely any time pass before a second finger joins in, scissoring her and coaxing her cunt to take more of her. "I wish you were this good and obedient while in class. Perhaps if I rewarded you more often, you would behave?" 

Hana is far beyond using words as those fingers finally, finally begin pumping into her. Subconsciously she spreads her legs further apart, face now fully pressed against the table as she mewls and whines her approval, thrusting her hips back against the fingers inside her. Madame Lacroix accepts it for an answer, pushing her hips forward with her thrusting fingers for more of an impact, the action pulling breathy whimpers from Hana. 

Leaning over, her professor nips at her neck, and the soft shell of her ear, whispering dirty nothings to her, voice low and vibrating throughout her whole body. She practically screams as a free hand snakes around to her front, presses a finger to her neglected clit, rubbing nonsensical patterns against it. 

And then the fingers inside her thrust harder, the table creaks in protest from the forcefulness. She's gone almost silent at this point, mouth open in a silent plea, the occasional squeak escaping her as she is barely able to keep up with the pace. But then a third finger forces its way inside her, and her cunt clenches hard around the intrusion, her eyebrows draw together and her eyes are closed tight as her whole body wracks with tremors. White spots fill the darkness of her vision as she cums, her professor never relenting her pace as she rides out the waves.

Then, when the crashing waves die down, so does her professors thrusts, and she feels disappointingly empty as fingers leave her oversensitive hole, instead replaced by a hot tongue. She nearly collapses then, moaning as the muscle cleans up the mess of her wet cunt and thighs. The sensation is gone all too soon, and the hand previously inside her assists in pulling up her underwear and pants. Her professor is surprisingly gentle as she helps her stand up, running a hand through her hair in an attempt to fix the knots forming there from when she was pulling at it before. 

A kiss on her lips pulls her out of her hazy stupor, the feeling lingering there for a time. "From now on, you will be a good girl and behave while in my class, do I make myself clear?" 

All Hana can muster is to nod stupidly. Perhaps signing up for this class wasn't a bad idea after all.


	5. Stray Kitten (Emily/Tracer/Widowmaker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena brings home a stray kitten, Emily lets her keep it.
> 
> Petplay/Edging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna write some quick petplay *writes 5,000+ words* *looks at the camera*
> 
> As always I love comments and criticism, if you want to send me a request or just feel like talking to me feel free to do so here or at https://fuckyatta.tumblr.com/

Dating a time traveling vigilante who came home every night worse for wear was old news for Emily. She knew what she signed up for that fateful night in the heart of King's Row when Lena had sheepishly revealed her chronal accelerator through her sweatshirt, and the reaction she got out of the overactive Brit when she told her she already knew about it helped seal the deal. It was hard, sure, but those nights when Lena came home to her and practically fell into her arms made it all worth it. 

What she hadn't signed up for, was the surprise visitor she got (just a few weeks after the assassination of Mondatta, of all times) one night. She had woken to hushed whispers from her girlfriend at the front door, followed by the response of someone unfamiliar, but decidedly female. Never had she felt Lena to be unfaithful or untrustworthy, yet still the sound of another woman in her apartment in the middle of the night was suspicious. Cautiously she untangled herself from the bed sheets and tip toed to the bedroom door, opening it just a crack to investigate. 

No, she certainly didn't agree to her girlfriend assisting the infamous Widowmaker in getting comfortable on their couch. 

The bedroom door whooshed open, and in some way, Emily found the situation comedic. Lena had turned into a statue, not facing her direction, as if not looking at her meant she wasn't there. Widowmaker in return offered her a lazy smile as she stretched across the couch cushions.

"Coucou, rousse."

That was quite easily Emily's longest night of her life, beginning with Lena giving her a reassuring smile as she ushered her back to the bedroom without a word. Once the door clicked shut a plethora of questions were on Emily's lips. Lena's obsession with the assassin had been prominent ever since the burglary attempt at the Numbani museum. She couldn't tell her much about what went on during their missions, but that didn't stop her from theorizing about the cyanotic femme fatale with Emily freely. 

She sworn she'd seen her before, she had told her. It all clicked when Mondatta happened, and she finally got a good look at the woman and heard what she sounded like. She became reckless, trying to get close to the woman and it truly seemed like she wanted to help her. To Emily, it seemed like a puppy crush for a married woman Lena hadn't ever gotten over. That fact never bothered her, thought it was rather cute, and now it seems that her stubbornness worked, if that very same woman taking residence on their couch was any proof. 

Lena begged Emily to let her stay, professed that Amelie (Whom she assumed was Widowmaker, she decided to brush aside the name similarity, for the moment) was a good woman who just needed help in escaping Talon. It was like a child begging their parent to let them keep a stray animal they found, promising they would take care of it. Emily mulled over it, humming in thought, but the pitiful look Lena shot at her made her decision for her. She agreed to it, knowing full well of Lena's schedule and how she'd be the one taking care of the stray cat she'd found in the streets, but for Lena's sake, she'd be up for the task. 

Though, Emily's initial presumption of Amelie being a stray cat was a little too spot on. That morning when Lena kissed her goodbye and she finally got out of bed, she still found the assassin lounging on their couch, arms wrapped around a pillow and face nuzzled into it. At some point Lena must've given her a blanket as well, for she was curled up rather comfortably in one. She looked vulnerable, almost inviting her to reach out and run a hand through her silky hair, but the notion of getting bit or attacked prevented her from doing so. 

Instead she set on warming up a kettle. After pouring herself a cup of tea she sits on the floor at the coffee table with her laptop across the sleeping woman, writing a new article for work in silence. Occasionally she hears soft rustling from the woman, peaking from atop her laptop she can see golden eyes look at her curiously, before closing again and falling right back asleep. The woman must've slept the whole day away, and when Lena returned that night she was pleased to see her still there, sitting beside her and cooing little reassurances to her and asking how she was. The widow simply hummed at her, which seemed to be enough of an answer for Lena. A twinge of jealousy sparked in Emily, but was washed away when Lena came to hug her tight and kissing her, thanking her for watching over Amelie. 

The next few days were relatively the same, but as time went on and Amelie was more comfortable in her surroundings she would get up and walk around. Emily would catch her fiddling with knick knacks around the apartment, or opening the drawers in their kitchen and sometimes the fridge, simply looking at the food inside before returning to the couch. It had only just now occurred to Emily that the woman ate and drank very little, couldn't actually recall of her doing either of those things in front of her. Quizzically, Emily poured her a cup of tea and set it down on beside the assassin, then went on with her day. And later one whilst writing, Widowmaker had pushed the cup towards her, now empty, hadn't even seen her drink from it, and she was looking up at her, expectant and demanding. She had no problem getting up and fetching her a refill.

And then there were the times Lena would not come home for days at a time, leaving Emily alone with the mysterious visitor. She was far past worrying of meeting her demise from the woman, certain at this point that if she was here to kill her, she would've. During Lena's absence the apartment became eerily quiet, both her and Amelie did not talk often, didn't talk at all, really. Emily had gotten confident enough to force Widowmaker to make room on the couch so she could work comfortably. It took some time getting used to having someone watching her work, but after a while Widowmaker unexpectedly asked her about her work. It had been the first time she heard the woman speak since the night she was brought in. Awkward at first, Emily spoke of her work as a journalist. She thought that it probably seemed boring, but the assassin seemed genuinely interested in learning about what she did, about her, in general. 

Jokingly, Emily asked in return about her work as a sniper. A moment had passed and Emily worried that she had maybe crossed a line, but to her surprise Amelie actually gave her an answer. She talked about long nights out in the cold waiting for the perfect shot, of quiet days alone in her barracks on base that felt more like prison than home, of doctors forcing her down and running tests on her. As she rambled on it seemed what Amelie was looking for was someone to vent to. Emily was happy to be that person, a strange sense of pride filling her that the woman would open up to her so easily. 

As the woman became more ingrained into Lena and Emily's lives, Lena came home one day with a burner phone for Widowmaker. Since it would be too risky to bring her along on excursions, it would be easier to contact her through that. That same day Lena went out to buy clothing for her, which made Emily realize she had been wearing that ridiculous catsuit since arrived (Emily wasn't the most perceivable person, alright? It's hard to notice what someone wears when they're wrapped up in blankets throughout most of the day.) Lena came back with an assortment of bags and boxes of clothes for Amelie to try, and Amelie in reply offered a hushed thank you as she looked through it all. 

Talking together became more natural, and it seemed that as Amelie became more confident in her place there she became more bold. She whispered something to Lena, Emily raising a curious eyebrow as a blush blooms across her girlfriends cheeks to the tips of her ears. The pair were getting ready to go to bed, and Lena turns to Emily with a funny smile on her face. 

"Amelie wants to know if it'd be alright if she slept with us, says the couch's too small." While that was somewhat true, the couch looking comically small when a woman as tall as Widowmaker attempted to sprawl across it, it hadn't been a problem in the past. Hesitantly she agreed, but questioned where on the bed she would be sleeping. Though the answer came to her when Amelie silently made a spot for herself on the middle of the bed, curling up under the covers and clutching a pillow. She had on a pair of pajamas Lena had bought her, the one with the goofy cartoon bats plastered on them, and a feeling of affection rose in both women for the undeniably cute woman now sleeping in their bed. The two joined her without a word, and in the morning Emily woke to Amelie cuddled up next to her, a cold nose tickling at her throat as she nuzzled her face into the crook of her neck. 

It became evident that Amelie's feline tendencies manifested in more ways than the constant cat naps and curiosity, she picked favorites as well. It kicked Lena's ego down a few notches when it became apparent that Amelie's favorite was Emily, whom she was often found curling up next to on the couch when they watched movies, or who she'd express interests in first. And despite her initial aloof nature, Amelie liked contact, liked to be touched and held, and one night while the three were on the couch enjoying movie night, Amelie wordlessly snaked her way into Emily's grasp, drooping her front against the redhead's and wrapped her arms around her.

Lena's face had read pure jealousy, but not from a betrayal standpoint. "Why's she so much more friendly around you?" She whined, a pout on her lips as she watched Amelie press closer against Emily, pleased with the attention as Emily stroked her back, idly tracing the spider legs across her back. 

"Maybe if you were around more to take care of the kitten you brought in she wouldn't be so opposed to you." It was a playful jest, but Emily could not mistake the reaction Amelie gave in response to the nickname; a shiver against her fingertips, fingers curling against her nape grasping her shirt. 

Lena crosses her arms and kicks her legs up onto the coffee table. "No fair." She grumbles, attention back to the movie, though Emily could barely focus as her mind raced with possibilities. 

When her thoughts finally calmed down, the rest of the night was uneventful. The movie ended and the three headed to bed. Amelie was being stubborn, not wanting to get up from her spot resting against the redhead, so instead Emily was forced to pick her up (she was surprisingly heavy) and carry her to bed. Beside her Lena audibly sighed and moped as she watched Emily assist in helping Amelie into bed. Emily shoots her a haughty look as she herself crawls under the covers, the assassin instantly curling up against her. 

"I'm the one who brought her home, she should be cuddling with me." Lena whines, grudgingly making her way into bed along with them.

"Aw, love, I'm sure she'll warm up to you eventually." Emily reassures her, reaching over Widowmaker to kiss Lena goodnight. 

What Emily had hoped was a one time thing, brushing away the incident between her and Amelie last night, ended up not being the case. She had awoken that morning not with Lena a top of her, but Amelie, golden eyes looking down at her, expression unreadable. Emily turns to her side to see Lena not in bed with them, and assumes that she must've left early for a mission. Grogginess still heavy on her eyes, she reaches an hand out, rubbing a blue arm soothingly.

"What's on your mind?" She asks the woman looming over her, voice husky with sleep. Still Amelie does not answer. Emily is patient with her, waits till she's ready to speak, and a moment of silence passes between the two. 

Before Emily can pry further, the assassin leans down, pressing cold lips to Emily's. The kiss is brief, and Emily is barely able to process it at first, only indication that it happened at all was the chill lingering on her lips. She blinks up at Amelie, confused, but isn't given an answer as lips encase hers once again, this one longer than the last. Emily feels herself melting into it, but snaps out of it, lightly pushing Amelie away from her. 

She is about to reprimand Amelie for kissing her when she knows well enough of her relationship status, when said person who solidified that status came back into the room with a cup of coffee in hand. The collar of her nightshirt was shoved down one shoulder, revealing a slew of bites and bruises across her neck and shoulder, marks that she knew for sure she hadn't made. She turns back to Amelie, looking like the cat who ate the canary, returning to peppering kisses to Emily's lips. 

Lena sits cross legged on the bed, coffee in hand and staring at the two in amusement. "I see you got the same wake up call as me." She seems to enjoy watching the two kissing, which eases Emily's tension somewhat, returning Amelie's kisses. "Better get her off of you quick unless you wanna end up getting attacked like I did." 

They would definitely need to discuss what this meant for the three.

Turns out that Amelie's initial disinterest towards Lena was fickleness. Emily still was her favorite, evident by the way she always seemed to gravitate towards her, but some days she liked to be touched my Lena, sometimes only Lena, sometimes only Emily, and on occasion she didn't want to be touched at all. Her tells were easy, and thus she was easy to accommodate for. 

Oh, and the sex was pretty nice, too. Amelie was a randy one, usually the one to initiate and demanding for attention. And even though the ex assassin was proclaimed to be unfeeling, she was oh so sensitive, unashamedly loud and expressive when touched in the right places. Though she turned out to be the real pillow princess, selfish with pleasure and not wanting to give it in return, but neither Emily nor Lena seemed to mind, finding it in each other and happy to pamper the needy woman.

Amelie played the role of a cat just a little too well, a thought that continued to spring up in Emily's mind, nagged at her especially now as she read a book in bed with the woman practically curled up in her lap. She was not much for talking, more apt to humming and cooing little affections towards her or Lena, as she did now while Emily ran a hand through her hair. Idly, Emily wonders how the woman would look with a pair of cat ears and a tail. She scratches at the woman's scalp, who makes a small noise of appreciation, pressing into the feeling.

Once Lena accompanies them to bed, Amelie adjusts where she's laying to sit between the two of them. Lena kisses her, then leans over to kiss Emily. Emily lets the kiss linger, pressing forward so the two squish the woman between them. Humming thoughtfully, she separates from Lena, petting Amelie's thigh.

"Babe, don't you think Am would make for the cutest kitten?" Emily's voice is low, mischievous, Amelie shivers as the hand on her thigh raises higher.

Lena easily catches onto what Emily implies, big smile on her face as her hand joins Emily's, coaxes a whine from the woman between them by placing a small kiss to her pulse. "I absolutely agree."

Which led them to now, with the three one afternoon sitting at the coffee table, Amelie on the couch and the other two across her. The two push a discreet box towards her expectantly. Opening it reveals a synthetic pair of cat ears and a tail, constructed by hard light to act and move like the real thing (What's nice about living in a world so driven by technology is that toys of a more sexual nature advanced as well) and what looked to be a rather expensive collar, a lace thing with frills at the ends, adorned with a bell. A finely drawn eyebrow raises, golden eyes stare questioningly at the two. 

"You don't have to if you're not interested, love." Lena starts, sounding more hopeful than intended. Delicately, Amelie inspects the toys, picks up the frilly collar and turns it in her hands, its bell emitting a soft ring. 

A moments pause, and Amelie lifts it to her neck, clipping it on. "I am more than interested, mon chou." 

The ears come next, they snap on simply with clips fitted with artificial neurotransmitters that give Amelie easy control of their movements. Instantly they twitch to life, and Emily reaches up to rub the thin membrane at the tip of the ears which flick away the intruding touch. The two are quick to tell her how cute she looks, and she replies with a quiet merci, a blush dusting her cheeks.

Then, there was the tail, attached to a bulbous plug that tapers off to the tail, relatively obvious where that went. Emily ushers Amelie to the bed, sitting with her back to the headboard. Amelie crawls on all fours atop the bed, resting her front onto Emily's lap, backside sticking up and swaying side to side temptingly. Lena runs a hand down the small of her back, Amelie's shirt drooping down to rest below her breasts, then both hands are planted firmly on her hips, fingers curling under the waistband on her pants and pulling them down, revealing the lacy panties she wore underneath, a pair Lena had bought for her and had been embarrassed to give to her, that soon became her favorite pair. 

Greedy hands grab at the soft flesh of her ass, squeezing and groping appreciatively before Lena hops off the bed for just a moment to fetch the plug and a bottle of lube, and when she's back on her spot Emily is petting at Amelie's back, shirt at some point removed to show her matching bra. Lena pushes aside the lacy fabric to give her access to her puckered hole, the ring of muscle tensing in anticipation. A quick huff of breathe escapes Amelie as Lena presses a thumb to the quivering hole, teasingly pushing against it. 

"I'm never gonna get tired of your ass, love." 

"Tais-toi." Amelie replies curtly, hands clutching at Emily's shirt, calming her breathing as cool liquid drips down between her cheeks. 

Lena applies an ample coating of lubricant to her fingers. She gives Amelie a small warning before pressing her index finger to the ring of muscle, slowly pushing inside till its past the first knuckle. She waits till Amelie nods at her to continue, tests out a languid pump of her finger, pushing it past the second knuckle. She wriggles the digit within the tight walls, coaxing labored puffs from the woman below her. Emily is massaging up and down Amelie's arms soothingly, back bowed to place kisses atop her head and whispering encouragements to her. 

"You think you can take two?" Lena coos to her, pleased to see Amelie's urgent nod and a muttering of please. Cautiously she inserts the second finger, the digit easily getting sucked in along with the first. She thrusts a few times, scissoring her fingers between each one until she thinks the hole is sufficiently relaxed. She laughs at Amelie's whine when she removes her fingers, whipping the excess lubricant still on her fingers to the plug, pouring a generous amount onto it just to be safe, then pressing the hard light tip into her, pushing it in past it's rounded head until the toy is seated fully inside her.

Both Lena and Emily gasp as a full body shiver wracks Amelie's being, unable to contain her whimpers of being full. And in the same instant, the tail at the end of the plug comes to life, whipping back and forth, smacking Lena square in the face. She grabs the tail before it manages to whack her again, giving it an experimental tug. Amelie moans, hips bucking at the sensation. 

"Oh, aren't you pretty." Lena says, voice husky, forcing another shiver from Amelie. Hands massage at the tops of the backside of her thighs, thumbs teasing at her aching folds. "We're gonna have a lot of fun playing with you."

The three set up a small list of rules set a safe word (Talon.) While playing her role, she mustn't speak unless given permission or in case of the need of her safe word, she must obey what Emily or Lena instruct of her unless she be punished, she must walk on all fours or be carried to where she need to go. 

Things are generally the same in the apartment, but now Amelie lounges wearing only lingerie, tail swaying in the air invitingly. To accommodate for the appendage her panties are pushed farther down, exposing most of ass, especially so when she lies down on her belly. 

Begrudgingly, Lena has to leave for an emergency back on base, leaving Emily alone with their new pet until the evening, and Emily plans to make the most of it. Amelie is sprawled across the couch, and Emily wraps her arm around Amelie's middle, gently lifting her up so she can sit with her. Amelie allows it, scoots up further atop Emily's lap so her belly lies down against Emily's legs. 

Hands explore bare skin, petting up the middle of Amelie's back, up to the nape of her neck so fingers tangle in dark hair. Her feline ears twitch, fold downward as fingers scratch at her scalp. Emily's free hand ventures south, fingers brushing down the small of her back, down to her ass. She grabs a handful of it, squeezes, before gripping the base of her tail and pulls against the plug. Amelie moans, back arching, hands clenching and unclenching on the couches armrest. 

Taking the plug between her fingers, she pulls it, teases it out of place till the plug peaked out halfway, then thrust it back in. Mewling, Amelie bucks back, thighs clenching. Emily tuts her, hand at the back of Amelie's thigh and forcing her to keep her legs open. Her legs quake, fingers pet at her cunt, wet and dripping with arousal. 

"Such a pretty kitty." Emily murmurs, fingers delving into slick folds, swiping up and palming her sex. Hips roll against her hand, and Amelie is shivering on top of her, tail pointed straight up and quivering. "You'll be good and only cum when I tell you, won't you kitten?"

Amelie nods, can't contain her whines and whimpers as fingers rub her clit. Then a hand is at her side, flips her over so her back now lies against her Emily's legs. She resumes her ministrations, palm now pressed to her aching bud and fingers pressing into her throbbing entrance. The woman in her lap whines, hips thrusting forward begging for her to fuck her. 

Emily does not comply yet, more interested in rubbing circles against her entrance, pushing against it but not enough to penetrate. Amelie's hips stutter, unsure of what to do against her hands, alternates between gripping Emily's wrist or clutching her shirt. Only until Amelie's chest is heaving does Emily give in, pushes two fingers into molten heat forcing a drawn out groan of relief from her pet.

She pushes them past the last knuckle, curls her fingers and pets at her sensitive front wall. Soft thighs clench around her hand keeping it stuck in place. Instead of pumping, Emily opts for simply prodding and rubbing her front wall, palm mashing her clit. Amelie trembles, whimpers, kneads at Emily's shirt, head tossing and turning. The constant stimulation is dizzying, just a minute in and her breath is labored, every exhale come out as a desperate whine. 

Then once her thrusts become erratic Emily stops all together, withdrawing her fingers, tracing lazy patterns onto Amelie's belly with her drenched fingers. She waits till Amelie's breathing has calmed to push into her again, repeating the same action of rubbing her front wall and massaging her clit. It takes even less time to bring her to the brink of orgasm only to stop again. Amelie practically sobs, unable to do anything as Emily edges her on over and over.

Her ears perk up when the front door opens, Lena coming into the apartment. Amelie yowls for her, squirming on Emily's lap. Lena sees the scene before her, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before she smiles, undoing the straps of her chronal accelerator and setting it down on its docking station. She runs a hand through Amelie's hair, brushing a few stray hairs away from her face, then just as her touch was there its gone as she heads towards the bedroom.

Amelie's whines are loud and clear through the bedroom door as she undresses from her base attire to a simple tanktop and slacks. When she arrives back into the living room she squats down in front of the pair, eye level with their pet. She makes note of her shivering form, sweat running down her body and her thighs coated in hot wetness. Giving her a pitied look, she looks up to Emily. 

"Have you been torturing our poor pet, love?" 

Emily's smile is smug, a single finger swirling against Amelie's swollen clit, who cries in response. "Just passing time waiting for you to come home."

Lena shakes her head, looking back down to Amelie, opening her arms to her. "Come here baby, I'll take care of you." 

Instantly Amelie is extending her arms towards her, and Lena scoops her up, kissing her cheeks and lips as she stands, giving a little twirl before heading to the bedroom. It's when Amelie is fully situated against Lena does she feel the bulge against her groin, another hard light toy they had bought with Amelie's accessories, meant to react and behave like the real thing, and she grinds against it, breath hot against Lena's neck. Lena humors her, holding her by the rear and pressing her closer against her. It sates her for the moment. 

Lena sets her down gently on the bed, and she adjusts herself so she's sitting on her knees. She eyes the half hard bulge in front of her, lifts a hand and paws at it through Lena's slacks. In return Lena tangles her fingers in dark hair, a smile on her face, and Amelie whines, leaning forward to nuzzle her nose against the clothed erection. 

"Feeling a bit bold, love?" Lena muses, hand cupping behind a furry ear to scratch at its edges. 

Amelie simply hums, fingers hooking under Lena's waistband and slowly pulling it down along with her underwear. The fake cock bobs once it's freed, and her pet wastes no time placing a kiss to its tip, tongue licking around the edge of the head. At this point, Emily has joined them in the bedroom, Amelie feels the dip of the matress and eyes on her as she works. She licks a hot strip along the cock's underside, eliciting a groan from her partner and a grip in her hair. 

Then she's taking the cock's head in her mouth, and Lena is looking down at her and the two maintain eye contact as Amelie takes the length further in. It's slow, a hand on the base of it squeezes the thick appendage until a cold nose presses against course hair, and she swallows, throat tightening around the thing and she moans, the feeling reaching it's recipient, Lena's breath going heavy. Before long she's being pulled off of it.

"As much as I enjoy that, I'd rather not blow my load before I get to the fun part." Lena huffs, ushering Amelie to lean back. Emily has moved behind her, so as Amelie moves back she is pressed against her, who's hands are on her in that same instant, running along her sides. Lena joins them on the bed between Amelie's legs, hands on her thighs and coaxing them to open wider. "Em, doesn't Am have the prettiest pussy?" 

Emily looks over Amelie's shoulder, down to Lena who is pulling back slick folds with her thumbs. She really is blue all over, skin turning a darker shade as it delves down where she runs hottest, lips puffy and drenched, desperate for attention. What isn't blue, however, is her pretty pink clit, peeking over its hood, sensitive and throbbing. 

The question is rhetorical as Lena doesn't wait for an answer, leaning down and placing a kiss to her aching bud. The reaction is immediate, Amelie squirms against Emily, an undignified squeak escaping her and the muscles in her abdomen tensing. Lena starts there and works backwards, kissing down her folds, tongue swiping up, then kissing down them again until Amelie is nothing but a mess of whines and whimpers, then places sloppy kisses along her thighs. 

Lips travel up her front until Lena is on her knees, hands encasing Amelie's small breasts that fit so well in her hands. Emily unhooks Amelie's bra, the two assist on removing it. Now Emily's hands grope and squeeze at the soft flesh while Lena's warm tongue presses against her pert nipples, rolling them and tracing around them. The bell around her neck rings softly as Amelie's head falls back to rest against Emily's shoulder. She is unsure where to put her hands, alternating between reaching behind her to brace herself against Emily or wrap around Lena for support. 

Then she feels Lena's hard cock press against her wet folds and she moans, hips jerking. Lena laughs, detaching her mouth from Amelie's nipple with a satisfying pop to look at her. "Think you're ready for me, pet?" Lena says, running the tip along her lips and nudging it at her swollen clit. Giving a shaky nod, Amelie's head tosses and turns, settling on burying her face into Emily's neck, eyes shut tight. 

Lena grips the cock's base, lining herself up before delving into liquid heat. She's met with no resistance, slowly pushing in until she's seated fully within her, pulling a drawn out mewl from the woman between them, legs hooking around Lena's middle. Taking that as the okay to continue, she pulls out, leaving just the head in before thrusting forward, both her and Amelie groaning out. Lena reaches out, hands finding Emily's thighs for leverage as she finds a steady rhythm to pump into their pet. 

Amelie had already been wound up by Emily prior, her thrusts meeting Lena's are frantic, desperate for release, but Lena does not relent, continues at her own pace. Emily is whisper sweet nothings into her ear, fingers digging into the soft skin of her breasts, and Lena is bucking into her, breath hot on her skin, and the sensations are too much, mind going fuzzy and sinking into the feeling, incoherent babbling leaving her. 

Then a thumb is mashing against her clit, her eyes snap open and her mouth opens in a silent scream as she thrashes, body erupting into violent shakes as her being is overcome with orgasm, sleek tail whipping back and forth between Lena's legs, whacking against her thighs and inner walks contracting against the toy inside her. Lena slows, helps her ride out the waves washing over her. 

When she finally comes to, two pairs of hands are running soothingly along her body. Emily's voice is warm against her ear, sends tingles down her spine. "I thought I said you could only cum when I told you to." 

"Is that so?" Lena joins in, toy still fully sheathed inside Amelie. She grinds into her, forcing a mewl from her. "We'll have to teach our naughty kitty how to behave."


	6. Fawn (Moira/Mercy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Angela comes to Moira with a request.
> 
> Mommy Kink/Light Bondage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, instead of writing any of the requests I've been given, I wrote this. I'll get to the requests eventually though, I swear. 
> 
> As always I love reading your comments and receiving criticism, it's what makes me want to write.

Angela was never one to refer to anything as stupid. The word was far too crass, overused to where it has lost its effectiveness, and simply sounded wrong coming out of her mouth. She was a woman of medicinal science, and typically her vocabulary branched out farther than that. Though, she was too occupied to think much else. 

"Moira," she announces. Her hands are tied tightly behind her back. Her shoulders ache and her knees are beginning to burn, but not enough to where she should mention it. There is a primly pointed shoe nudging at the underside her chin, forcing her to look upwards. Moira looks rather comfortable in her plush executive chair, one leg crossed over the other. And while her colleague is one to present proper posture, she is leaning almost comically in her chair, so much so she's nearing sliding out of it. A hand is resting upon Moira's jaw, long nails tapping at her cheek and a thin eyebrow raises curiously, though she gives no other indication that she's listening. "This is stupid."

Moira looks genuinely shocked by her comment, only to laugh a moment later. It's her loud, haughty laugh, head tossed back and hand to her chest. Angela, in return, huffs her annoyance. Her cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, and she fidgets in place. "Wasn't this your idea? I am simply indulging you." Moira comes off as patronizing, voice delicate yet with an air of superiority. It's maddening, and Angela's face is hot with embarrassment. She seeks relief with the cool material of Moira's shoe, rubbing her cheek along it's vamp. 

"Yes, but-"

"My little girl feeling shy?"

Angela whimpers, thighs squeezing together, fingers curling. She shuts her eyes, cheek fully pressed to the shoe's throat to hide away from Moira's studious gaze. "Moira..." it hadn't been her intention to sound vulnerable in that moment, but still her voice falters to find it's confidence, instead it's hushed and soft. 

Then Moira is laughing again, though now it's warm and throaty. It has Angela attempting to hide away further. Hunching forward, Moira reaches out to run a soothing hand through Angela's hair, scratching at her scalp and insisting her to look up at her. She does, and Moira is smiling down at her adoringly. As much as Moira clings to her daunting aloof persona, it's times like these that her true emotions emerge.

"Don't have to be so scundered about it." Moira's sits up now, slowly, uncrossing her legs and having the tip of her shoe trace along Angela's bare body, disappearing between her thighs to nestle itself amidst white lace. Angela scoots forward, swallowing back a pathetic mewl as Moira's shoe presses into her core, and rests her head to Moira's knee. Nimble fingers continue to pet at her scalp, and Angela hums in appreciation. "How do you know it's stupid if you haven't even tried it?" Moira coos, "I'd like to hear you say it just once, angel. Give it a chance." 

To encourage her, Moira rubs her shoe against her wet panties. Angela whines, humping Moira's leg unashamedly. A word slips past her lips, but it's mumbled and meek, and can't be heard. Moira presses against her harder. "I didn't quite catch that, speak up darling." Her fingers become entangled in her hair, pulling at Angela's scalp. 

Again Angela whines, tears prickle at the corners of her eyes and her cheeks burn. "Mommy." 

Moira fists Angela's hair, forcefully pulling her head back so baby blue eyes are staring back into hers. She's got a wild, predatory look in her eyes, and she digs her foot against her cunt. Angela is dripping, wetness drenching her lace panties and dirtying Moira's shoe. "Again," she says, voice a tad huskier. 

Angela's thighs clench tight, trapping Moira's foot in place. Her legs shake, her back arches. "Mommy." She attempts to hide her desperation, but her keening moan does little to help her, nor does her rutting against the hard suirface of Moira's shoe. "Please."

"Please what, baby? Use your words."

Moira's use of pet names only spurs Angela further. She squirms, pressing her body up against Moira's leg. Her voice comes small and and pleading, like a child begging for a toy. "I want more."

Moira laughs, amused. "More what? You must learn to be more specific."

In return Angela huffs. She nuzzles Moira's pant leg, body swaying subtly side to side. It reminds her of her burning knees, and she wishes to lay them somewhere softer, preferably in Moira's lap. "I want you to touch me..." Moira's grip of Angela's hair lessens, resumes petting at her scalp, still tingling from the sensation. 

"I am touching you." Moira says, demonstrating so by wiggling her foot trapped between Angela's thighs. 

Angela whines petulantly, shaking her head causing her ponytail to swish back and forth. Moira laughs at her childishness. "Alright, alright, my needy girl." She wriggles the heel of her foot, insisting Angela release her foot, and the gravely rumble of her voice makes Angela easy to comply despite her whining. The cap of her shoe glistens under the dull light of her office. "But first I ask a favor of you."

Leaning back in her chair, Moira spreads her legs. Her knees bump either arm chair, feet flat to the ground and pointed outward. A hand rests at her crotch, fingers curling around the erection in her slacks, outlining it's length through the material. Astute eyes catch Angela staring at it, and she gives it a squeeze, languidly thrusting into the sensation. "On with it, then." 

Angela whimpers. She shuffles forward on her knees till she's situated between Moira's legs. The hand at Moira's crotch assists Angela, unbuttoning her slacks and unzipping them. The prominent bulge in her boxer briefs pushes past the fly of her pants, splitting both ends to either side. For a moment Angela stares, before leaning in to kiss it through the soft cotton. She can feel it throb against her lips, musk heavy on her senses. A strong desire to rub her cheek to it washes over Angela, and she wishes for that smell to stick to her, to never be rid of it. 

She's pulled out of her trance by a hand in her hair, insisting her forwards. Complying, Angela uses her teeth to pull at the elastic of Moira's underwear, tugging it down. It's slow to pull over Moira's cock, but once it does it springs outwards, head wet and in need of attention. Angela looks up to Moira, and Moira looks down to her and watches with intent as she kisses its head. Her lips are soft, and Moira resists throwing her head back and groaning, resists fisting Angela's hair and shoving her cock into her mouth. 

When Moira had heard the rasping at her door so late into the night she suspected it would have been Gabriel tagging her along on a mission. Instead it's Angela, squeezing through the door she opens just a crack. She looks rather cute, adorned in her lab coat and her hair in disarray. Her eyes are tired, and she had spent most her time looking at her shoes. It was only till Moira spoke to her in a stern voice, unintentional as it was from her own exhaustion, that Angela blushes, and she goes on a tangent on something she'd like to try. 

She looked cute then, but she is far more so now, on her knees, tenderly kissing Moira's cock as if it is something of worship. Her eyes are closed now, and without the use of her hands she relies on solely her mouth. She kisses the underside of her cock, up to its head. With a gentle tenderness, her teeth nip at wrinkled foreskin to reveal the entirety of its head. She brings it into her mouth, and Moira suppresses a gasp once Angela hollows her cheeks and sucks. 

Slowly, slowly, Angela takes more of Moira's cock into her mouth. Whilst Moira keeps quiet, Angela can hardly control herself. She mewls and whines and whimpers. Once her nose is flush with red downy curls, she swallows, her throat pushes down on Moira's cock. Moira clutches at the chairs armrest and her knees wobble, digging her heels to the ground and pressing closer to the chairs cushion to stop herself from thrusting forward. 

Angela pulls back, gasping for air that comes out as hot puffs against Moira's twitching cock. And she is about to make the decent again before Moira pulls at her hair, gently as to not hurt her. "Enough of that, angel." Moira's voice comes as strained, to not sound so effected by Angela's ministrations. "Mother wishes to fuck you. Up."

Angela whines, and Moira assists her up onto shaky legs. She reminds Moira that of a baby deer learning to walk. It is endearing, and she smiles up at her fawn adoringly. She admires the white lace of her bra and panties, and how visible the pink of her nipples and the flush of her cunt peek through the lingerie. Moira helps her keep balance as she stumbles her way atop Moira's lap. 

Moira is wearing Angela's favorite shirt; her black dress shirt. The collar is popped, as well as three buttons, exposing her collarbone and the dip of her breasts. She is missing her purple tie, which was used to tie Angela's wrists. Once Angela is settled above Moira she nuzzles her face to the crook of her neck. Moira smells strongly of men's cologne and the tattered pages of an old book. She buries herself into it. 

Careful hands roam the expanse of Angela's bare skin, fingertips tickling her ribs, the crease of her back and her hips. Moira's cock brushes against lace, and Angela bucks her hips, whimpering. Moira hushed her, kissing the top of her head. "So impatient, has no one taught you how to sit still?" She chides. Angela shakes her head, and Moira laughs. "Perhaps I'll have to teach you. Another time, though. I do believe you've been a good girl. And good girls deserve to be rewards, do they not?" It's hypothetical, but Angela still nods her head enthusiastically.

To see Angela this way had been strange. Typically her colleague had demonstrated confidence. She spoke her mind and stood her ground. Now she was meek, submissive, juvenile. Moira tries not to think much of it, nor does she wish to pry into Angela's private life. Well, as much as she already is, she supposes. At a later date, perhaps she would delve into it, but at the moment Angela is just so noisy above her, desperate to be fucked. It provided a good distraction from her thoughts. 

Wasting no time, Moira delicately moves Angela's panties to the side. Then, with her hands flush to her hips she guides her down. She's met with sweltering heat, slick dripping down her cock. It takes no effort at all to push into her hot cunt, and Angela, the greedy child she currently was, sank down entirely to the base. Angela can barely sit still, hips stuttering and hips wriggling. Moira finds herself unable to keep still either, and she decides to indulge Angela, as well as herself, just this once. 

Nails dig into Angela's hips, and Moira bucks up. Angela moans, yowling as if a cat in heat. Her shoulders tense and she breaths heavily against Moira's collarbone as she lifts herself off of Moira's cock only to drop back down, meeting her thrusts. Moira only allows herself to grunt and huff her exertion, Angela however, cannot seem to control her volume. The walls of Moira's office are anything but sound proof, and even as late as it is, there is still a chance for someone to hear. The thought does not stop her. 

Had Angela not been so vocal the room would have been filled with the echo of skin slapping along with the distinct squelch each time Moira bottoms out within her. The chair squeaks, and Moira has to consciously make an effort to keep her feet planted to the ground to keep it from rolling. Moira breathes in deeply, and aside from the heavy smell of sex resonating throughout the room, Angela smells of morning dew and of the forest in fall. It is heavenly, and she finds herself becoming lost in that scent, and doesn't wish to be rid of it. 

Moira is brought out of her daze from Angela speaking. She has a difficult time forming words through her panting and moaning, and because so struggles to keep herself from stuttering. "Please. Mommy, please."

Moira gives herself time to regain her control. It is difficult, but she manages. "What is it, baby?"

If Angela could she would be clutching Moira's shirt in her hands, to rip it open and feel her skin on her hands. "Please, I want you to come in me. I want you to so badly."

Moira feels a tightness in her balls, and sweat gather at her forehead. She swallows, and resists the urge to come right then and there. Instead she reaches a thumb to Angela's clit, rolls the sensitive nub with her thumb pad and with her dwindling energy makes the most of rutting into Angela's heat. She is sure by now her slacks are most certainly ruined by Angela's slick, but she can't find it in herself to care. "Do you believe you deserve it?" She grunts.

Angela makes a high, keening noise. Her thighs quiver and her back bows. She's come, Moira feels so by the way her walls contract around her cock. "Please!" Angela's practically sobbing, and it's then that Moira relents, as though she could control it in the first place. 

When Moira comes she's buried to the hilt, and her hips move on their own as she pumps into her. Eventually they both wade in the pleasurable aftershocks, soaking in one another's body heat. Moira reaches around Angela to carefully remove her bindings. As soon as Moira's tie hits the ground there are hands grasping at Moira's shirt, and Angela attempts to push herself close to Moira. She hums, content, practically putting like a pleased kitten into Moira's neck. 

Moira doesn't feel like removing herself just yet. Instead she rolls the chair towards the door of her office. She opens it, just a smidgen so she may pop her head out. The halls are empty. She waits a moment longer before scooting back over to her desk, where she grabs a handful of tissues. Gingerly she raises Angela from her softening cock. Angela complains, whining as come drips out of her sensitive cunt. Moira cleans up what she can, tossing the wet tissues into the trash then tucking herself away back into her slacks.

Next she retrieves Angela's lab coat, tossed and forgotten on the floors. It seems as though Angela won't be letting go of her soon, arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Moira opts for draping it around her naked form. She grabs Angela from the back of her thighs before standing, and in response Angela hooks her legs around Moira's middle, clinging to her like a koala. 

Luckily for Moira her quarters aren't too far away from her office. Still she walks briskly through the empty hallways, lest they get caught in an unfavorable position. By the time they reach her room Angela has fallen asleep in her arms, breathing softly against Moira's neck. She nudges the door open with her foot, careful of the cargo she's carrying as she walks through it. 

Delicately she sets Angela down into her bed, looking over her sleeping form. Her wrists and knees are red, and surely her hips will bruise from Moira's groping. Moira will have to make it up to her later, as hurting the angel was never her intent, no matter if Angela enjoyed it or not. Running a hand through her own hair, Moira stands there a moment, simply watching Angela sleep. She still has work to do, and though she would enjoy snuggling up to Angela and sleeping, she simply can't. 

Before she exits the room she looks over to Angela one last time, before returning to her office.


End file.
